


Relief

by patternofdefiance



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Juice - Freeform, Licking, M/M, Peaches - Freeform, implied sex, not really food kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-04 16:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1785172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patternofdefiance/pseuds/patternofdefiance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is glad that the first time he sees Sherlock eat a peach is the summer after they finally stop dancing around each other. Or maybe ‘glad’ isn’t the word. More like…<i>relieved</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cover

**Author's Note:**

> Posted this one on my tumblr a while ago...because I woke from johnlock-y dreams and had a peach for breakfast.  
> It was a messy affair.  
> *waggles eyebrows*
> 
> Not beta-d or brit-picked, because quick drabbles on tumblr hardly merit that. Still - if you spot something horribly wrong, do let me know <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Airing out my inking skills....  
> And also testing my cover formatting options...


	2. Chapter 2

John is glad that the first time he sees Sherlock eat a peach is the summer after they finally stop dancing around each other. Or maybe ‘glad’ isn’t the word. More like… _relieved._

Because Sherlock, absentminded eater that he is and always has been and probably always will be, eats peaches in the same way he eats toast and scones and biscuits - that is to say: with one hand, while distracted by something else, and lying on his back on the couch.

Toast, scones, and biscuits are inherently dry and given to shedding a crumb or two.

Peaches are not.

Instead, John has the fortune of looking up just as Sherlock takes his third bite of season-fresh and summer-ripe peach, and seeing the juice escape, run down to the bottom curve of the fuzzy fruit, cling for a quivering moment, before dripping -

Dropping -

Pooling straight into the notch between Sherlock’s clavicles.

The relief John feels as Sherlock fails to notice anything except what he’s reading on his mobile, and yes it’s _relief,_ is palpable, because _thank god_ he doesn’t have to pretend not to see, or pretend not to be affected, or clear his throat and say: “Sherlock, you’ve got some on you,” or offer Sherlock a dry cloth with a hastily steadied hand.

No.

Instead John stands, just a touch giddy, saunters over to where his Sherlock is splayed, and without explanation, kneels by his side, pushes peach and phone aside, and ducks to lap at that breath-trembled puddle of peach juice.

Sherlock’s startles, makes a noise of startlement, not because John is close or touching him, because they’d sorted that - the closeness and the touching - already, _thank god_ , but because John is suddenly there, John’s tongue and lips are suddenly there, and that makes Sherlock notice the mess he’s made at last.

"Oh!" he says, and then sighs and stretches his neck back, elongating it, causing the surviving drops to flee south, and John’s tongue follows them down the vee of Sherlock’s loose robe, captures them, and then trails slowly back up, retracing its path, until it returns, triumphant, to Sherlock’s suprasternal notch.

John lifts up, then dips again, this time to Sherlock’s mouth, which is peach-wet and opening for him. His mouth is ripe summer, and John can’t get enough, but he curbs his kissing just long enough to pull back and say, “Good morning,” because they hadn’t yet.

"Good morning," Sherlock says, voice lower and more lust-hazed than it usually is most mornings at seven thirty-five a.m.

"Anything on today?" John asks, aiming for casual even as Sherlock finally seems to notice the peach he’s still holding and the sticky wet siege it has laid to his fingers and wrist, slowly expanding its claim southwards to his forearm.

"Mmmm," Sherlock says, and brings his hand to his mouth, starts to lick the juice from his wrist in fastidious little licks. "Nothing promising," he murmurs, but John would classify it as a purr if pressed.

"Well," John says, taking the peach and setting it aside, taking Sherlock’s hand and bringing each finger into his mouth one at a time to be suckled clean. "We’ll just have to think of something, won’t we?"

A moment later Sherlock’s mobile drops and clatters to the floor, forgotten for the moment - or the rest of the morning, as the case may be.


End file.
